Assassin's Creed: Black Flag

by Oliver Bowden

  What were their petty concerns? I wondered. I found I didn’t care. After all, why would I? As a pirate I’d renounced all law but pirate law; my freedom was absolute. I was governed by rules, of course, but they were the rules of the sea and adhering to them was a matter of need, for survival rather than the acquisition of status and the peacocking of sashes and baubles. What were their squabbles with the Assassins? I wondered, and found I couldn’t give a fig about that either.

  So yes, I relaxed. I didn’t take them seriously.

  Torres placed the first ring on DuCasse’s finger. “Mark and remember our purpose. To guide all wayward souls till they reach a quiet road.”

  A second ring was placed on Rogers’s finger. “To guide all wayward desire till impassioned hearts are cooled.”

  Hot air, I thought. Nothing but empty, meaningless statements. No purpose other than to award their speaker unearned authority. Look at them all, lapping it up, like it means something. Silly men so deluded by a sense of their own importance that they were unable to see that it extended no further than the walls of the mansion.

  Nobody cares, my friends. Nobody cares about your secret society.

  Then Torres was addressing me, and he placed on my finger a third ring, saying, “To guide all wayward minds to safe and sober thought.”

  Sober, I thought. That was a laugh.

  I looked down at the ring he’d put on my finger and suddenly I was no longer laughing. Suddenly I was no longer thinking of these Templars as a silly secret society with no influence outside their own homes, because on my finger was the same ring as worn by the East India Company’s ship captain Benjamin Pritchard, the same ring worn by the man in the hood, the leader of the group who burned my father’s farmhouse, both of whom had warned me of great and terrible powers at work. Suddenly I was thinking that whatever squabbles these people had with the Assassins then, well, I was on the side of the Assassins.

  For the moment, I would bide my time.

  Torres stood back. “By the father of understanding’s light let our work now begin,” he said. “Decades ago, the council entrusted me with the task of locating in the West Indies a forgotten place our precursors once called The Observatory. See here . . .”

  On the table before him were spread out the documents from the satchel, placed there by El Tiburón.

  “Look upon these images and commit them to memory,” added Torres. “They tell a very old and important story. For two decades now I have endeavoured to locate this Observatory. It is a place rumoured to contain a tool of incredible utility and power. It houses a kind of armillary sphere, if you like. A device that would grant us the power to locate and monitor every man and woman on Earth, whatever his or her location.

  “Only imagine what it would mean to have such power. With this device, there would be no secrets among men. No lies. No trickery. Only justice. Pure justice. This is The Observatory’s promise and we must take it for our own.”

  So that, then, was where I first learnt of The Observatory.

  “Do we know its whereabouts?” asked Rogers.

  “We will soon,” replied Torres, “for in our custody is the one man who does. A man named Roberts. Once called a Sage.”

  DuCasse gave a small, scoffing laugh. “It has been forty-five years since anyone has seen an actual Sage. Can you be sure this one is authentic?”

  “We are confident he is,” replied Torres.

  “The Assassins will come for him,” said Rogers.

  I looked at the documents spread out before us. Drawings of what looked like an ancient race of people building something—The Observatory, presumably. Slaves breaking rocks and carrying huge stone blocks. They looked human, but not quite human.

  One thing I did know—a plan was beginning to form. This Observatory, which meant so much to the Templars. What would it be worth? More to the point, what would it be worth to a man planning revenge on the people who had helped torch his childhood home?

  The small crystal cube from the pouch was still on the table. I puzzled over it, just as I had on the beach at Cape Buena Vista. Now I watched as Torres reached and picked it up, replying to Rogers at the same time.

  “Indeed the Assassins will come for us but, thanks to Duncan and the information he has delivered, the Assassins won’t be a problem for much longer. All will be made clear tomorrow, gentlemen, when you meet The Sage for yourselves. Until then, let us drink.”

  Our host indicated a drinks table, and while backs were turned I reached to the documents and pocketed a manuscript page—a picture of The Observatory.

  I was just in time before Torres turned, handing glasses to the men.

  “Let us find The Observatory together, for with its power, kings will fall, clergy will cower, and the hearts and minds of the world will be ours.”

  We drank.

  We drank together though I know for sure we drank in honour of very different things indeed.

  THIRTY

  The next day I had been asked to meet my “fellow Templars” at the city’s Northern Ports, where it was said the treasure fleet would be arriving with my reward, and we could discuss further schemes.

  I nodded, keen to give the impression that I was an eager Templar, plotting with my new firm friends to do whatever it was Templars were plotting to do—the small matter of being able to influence “every man and woman on Earth.” In fact, what I intended to do, just between me and you, was pocket the money, make my excuses, whatever those excuses needed to be, and leave. I was looking forward to spending my money and sharing my new-found information with my confederates at Nassau, then finding The Observatory, reaping the pay-day, helping the downfall of these Templars.

  But first I had to collect my money.

  “Good morning, Duncan,” I heard Woodes Rogers hailing me from the docks. It was a fresh morning in Havana, the sun yet to reach full temperature and a light breeze blowing in from the Gulf of Mexico.

  I began following Rogers, then I heard a voice shout, “Edward! Hello, Edward!”

  For a second or so I thought it was a case of mistaken identity, even found myself looking over my shoulder to see this “Edward.” Until I remembered. Edward was me. I was Edward. Stupid Edward. Who, from a misplaced sense of guilt, had admitted my secret to Havana’s biggest babbler, Stede Bonnet.

  “I found a man to purchase my remaining sugar. Quite a coup I must say,” he called across the harbour.

  I waved back—excellent news—aware of Rogers’s eyes upon me.

  “He just called you Edward,” said my companion. That same curious smile I’d seen yesterday played about his lips again.

  “Oh, that’s the merchant who sailed me here,” I explained, with a conspiratorial wink. “Out of caution, I gave him a false name.”

  “Ah . . . well done,” said Rogers.

  But not convinced.

  I was thankful to leave the main harbour behind when Rogers and I joined the same group of Templars who’d met at Torres’s mansion the day before. Hands were shaken, the rings of our brotherhood, still fresh on our fingers, glinted, and we gave each other short nods. Brothers. Brothers in a secret society.

  Torres led us to a line of small fishermen’s huts, with row-boats tethered in the water nearby. There was no one about, not yet. We had this small area of the harbour to ourselves, which was the intention, no doubt, as Torres guided us to the end, where guards waited before one of the small huts. Inside, sitting on an upturned crate with a beard and ragged clothes and in his eyes a dejected but defiant look, was The Sage.

  I watched the faces of my companions change. Just as the conflict between defeat and belligerence seemed to play out on the face of The Sage, so the Templars appeared to struggle too, and they returned his glare with a look that was a mix of pity and awe.

  “Here he is,” said Torres, speaking quietly, almost reverently, whether he knew it or not, “a man both Templars and Assassins have sought for over a decade.”

  He addressed The Sage.
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  “I am told your surname is Roberts. Is this so?”

  Roberts, or The Sage, or whatever we were calling him that day, said nothing. Merely stared balefully at Torres.

  Without taking his eyes off The Sage, Torres reached a hand up to shoulder level. Onto his palm El Tiburón placed the crystal cube from the pouch. I’d wondered what it was. I was about to find out.

  Torres, speaking to The Sage again, said, “You recognize this, I think?”

  Silence from The Sage. Perhaps he knew what was coming next for Torres indicated again, and a second upturned crate was brought and he sat on it so that he faced The Sage, man to man, except that one of the men was governor of Havana and the other man was ragged and had wild, hermit eyes and his hands were bound.

  It was to those bound hands that Torres reached, bringing the crystal cube to bear, then inserting it over The Sage’s thumb.

  The two men stared at each other for a moment or so. Torres’s fingers seemed to be manipulating The Sage’s thumb somehow, before a single droplet of blood filled the vial.

  I watched, not quite sure what I was witnessing. The Sage seemed to feel no pain and yet his eyes went from one man to the next as though cursing each of us in turn, me included, fixed with a stare of such ferocity that I found myself having to resist the impulse to shrink away.

  Why on earth did they need this poor man’s blood? What did it have to do with The Observatory?

  “According to the old tales, the blood of a Sage is required to enter The Observatory,” said DuCasse in a whisper, as though reading my thoughts.

  When the operation was over, Torres stood from his crate, a little shaky, with one hand holding the vial for all to see. Caught by the light, the blood-filled crystal gave his hand a red glow.

  “We have the key,” he announced. “Now we need only its location. Perhaps Mr. Roberts will be eager to provide it.”

  He waved guards forward.

  “Transfer him to my residence.”

  That was it. The ghastly procedure was over, and I was pleased to leave the strange scene behind as we began making our way back to the main harbour, where a vessel had arrived. The one containing the treasure, I hoped. I sorely hoped.

  “Such a fuss over one man,” I said to Torres as we walked, trying to sound more casual than I felt. “Is The Observatory really such a grand prize?”

  “Yes, indeed,” replied Torres. “The Observatory was a tool built by the precursor race. Its worth is without measure.”

  I thought of the ancients I had seen in the pictures at the mansion. Torres’s precursor race?

  “I do wish I could remain to see our drama done,” said Rogers, “but I must avail myself of these winds and sail for England.”

  Torres nodded. That familiar twinkle had returned to his eyes. “By all means, Captain. Speed and fortune to you.”

  The two men shook hands. Brothers in a secret society. Rogers and I did the same before the legendary pirate hunter turned and left, off to continue being the scourge of buccaneers everywhere. We would meet again, I knew. Though I hoped the day would come later rather than sooner.

  By then one of the ship’s deck-hands had arrived and handed Torres something that looked suspiciously like it might contain my money. Not that the bag seemed quite as hefty as I’d hoped.

  “I consider this the first payment in a long-lived investment,” said Torres, handing me the pouch—the suspiciously light pouch. “Thank you.”

  I took it cautiously, knowing by the weight that there was more to come, both in terms of money as well as more challenges for me to face.

  “I would like you to be present for the interrogation tomorrow. Call around noon,” said Torres.

  So that was it. In order to collect the rest of my fee I needed to see The Sage terrified further.

  Torres left me and I stood there for a moment on the dock, deep in thought, before leaving to prepare. I had decided. I was going to rescue The Sage.

  I wonder why I decided to rescue The Sage. I mean, why didn’t I simply take what money I’d been given, show a clean pair of heels and fill the sails on a passage to Nassau in the north-east? Back to Edward, Benjamin and the delights of The Old Avery.

  I’d like to say it was a noble desire to free The Sage, but there was a bit more to it than that. After all, he could help find this Observatory, this device to follow people around. What would a thing like that be worth? Sell it to the right person and I would be rich, the richest pirate in the West Indies. I could return to Caroline a rich man. So perhaps it was merely greed that made me decide to rescue him. Looking back, probably a mixture of the two.

  Either way, it was a decision I’d shortly regret.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Night-time, and the walls of Torres’s mansion formed a black border beneath a grey, starless sky. The chirping insects were at their loudest, almost drowning out the trickle of running water and the soft rattle of the palm trees.

  With a quick look left and right—my approach had been timed to make sure no sentries were present—I flexed my fingers and jumped, pulled myself up to the top of the wall, then lay there for a second to control my breathing and listen for running feet, cries of “hey!” or the swish of swords being drawn.

  When there was nothing—nothing apart from the in-sects, the water, the whisper of night wind among the trees—I dropped down to the other side and into the grounds of the Havana governor’s mansion.

  Like a ghost I made my way across the gardens and into the main building, where I hugged the walls along the perimeter of the courtyard. On my right forearm I felt the comforting presence of my hidden blade and strapped across my chest were my pistols. A short-sword hung from my belt beneath my robes and I wore my cowl over my head. I felt invisible. I felt lethal. I felt as though I was about to deliver a blow against the Templars and even though freeing The Sage wasn’t equal to the harm their brothers had done me and this wasn’t going to even the score, it was a start. It was a first strike.

  What’s more, I’d have the location of The Observatory and could reach it before they did and that was a far, far bigger blow. That would hurt. I’d think of how much it would hurt them while I was counting my money.

  I’d had to make an informed guess as to where the governor kept his state prisons, but I’m pleased to say I was right. It was a small compound, separate from the mansion, where I found a high wall and . . .

  That’s odd. Why is the door hanging open?

  I slid through. Flaming torches bracketed on the walls illuminated a scene of carnage. Four of five soldiers dead in the dirt, gaping holes at their throats, pulverized meat at their chests.

  I had no idea where The Sage had been kept but one thing was beyond doubt: he wasn’t here any longer.

  I heard a sound behind me too late to stop the blow but in time to prevent its knocking me out, and I pitched forward, landing badly on the dirt, but having the presence of mind to roll. A pikestaff with my name on it was driven into the ground where I’d been. At the other end of it was a surprised soldier. I kicked myself up, grabbed his shoulders and span. At the same time I kicked at the shaft of the pikestaff and snapped it, then rammed his body onto it.

  He flopped like a landed fish, impaled on the snapped shaft of his own pikestaff, but I didn’t stick around to admire his death-throes. The second soldier was upon me, angry, the way you get when you see your friend die.

  Now, I thought, let’s see if this works every time.

  Snick.

  The hidden blade engaged and I met the steel of his blade with steel of my own, knocking his sword away and slashing open his throat with the backswipe. I drew the sword at my belt in time to meet a third attacker. Behind him were two soldiers with muskets. Close by was El Tiburón, his sword drawn but held at his hip as he watched the fight. I saw one of the soldiers grimace and it was a look I recognized, a look I’ve seen before from men on the deck of a ship lashed to mine.

  He fired just as I drove both my sword and hidden
blade into the soldier in front of me, pinning him with the blades and swinging him around at the same time. His body, already dead, jerked as the musket ball slammed into him.

  I let my human shield go, plucking a dagger from his belt as he dropped and praying that my aim would be as good as it always had been, after countless hours at home spent tormenting the trunks of trees with throwing knives.

  It was. I took out not the first musketeer—he was already making a panicky attempt to reload—but the second, who fell with the knife embedded between his ribs.

  In a bound I was over to the first one and punched him in the stomach with my blade hand, so that he coughed and died on the shaft. Blood beads described an arc in the night as I pulled the blade free and span to meet the attack of El Tiburón.

  There was no attack, though.

  Instead El Tiburón calmed the tempo of the fight, and rather than begin his attack straight away, simply stood and very casually tossed his sword from one hand to the other before addressing me with it.

  Fine. At least there wouldn’t be a lot of chat during this bout.

  I snarled and came forward, blades cutting half circles in the air, hoping to daze or disorient him. His expression hardly changed, and with fast movements of his elbow and forearm he met my attack easily. He was concentrating on my left hand, the hand that held the sword, and before I even realized he was doing it, my cutlass went spinning from my bloody fingers to the dirt.

  My hidden blade was all I had left now. He concentrated on it, knowing it was new to me. Behind him more guards had gathered in the courtyard, and though I couldn’t understand what they were saying, it was obvious: I was no match for El Tiburón; my end was but a heartbeat away.

  So it proved. The last of his attacks ended with a smash of the knuckle guard across my chin, and I felt teeth loosen and my head spin as I sank, first to my knees, before pitching forward. Beneath my robes, blood sluiced down my sides like sweat, and what little fight was left in me was leached away by the pain.